Friday, April 29, 2011

Desert

Somewhere in her core
In an inaccessible place
She dreams of waves
Lapping softly against her jagged finger tips
Teasing her gently
Tickling her impenetrable skin
As futile as a dandelion’s delicate dance
Upon an oily slab of rock
The soft, sensuous scent of salt
Cool, smooth froth spilling over her
The soothing whisper of an estranged friend

But she knows…she knows
It’s just a foolish dream
The wounded waves will never come
The throbbing thirst her only real companion
And in this knowing
She finds strength
To caress her own scars
To gather up her pieces
And make something whole
So when the winds come
It will not matter. She will be hard.
She will be numb.

Oh wow, Jen (I'm assuming it's you), thank you. I'm actually not much of a poem person either. I like writing poetry, but even after taking classes on the genre, I have never quite figured out what exactly constitutes a poem (other than all of the blank white space around the words). To tell you the truth, this one came across as a bit generic to me, so it was good to read your comment. As far as whether my desert has a happy ending, I think the decision is hers.

On a side note, I swear in real life I'm a happy person. But for some reason, whenever I'm doing any kind of "creative writing," it comes out sad. I can't figure this one out. I'm drawn to sad paintings too. I think I just like to explore the full range of human emotions, and regret/nostalgia are more interesting to me than happiness. Wow am I morbid.

No I don't think its morbid, I think happy poems, songs, etc. just get a little sappy after a while. It sounds bad but theres only so much rainbows and sunshine you can take before its gets unreallistic and kinda boring. And yeah, its Jen. :-D